


Hey, Arthur!

by AiraKay



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Doctor Who References, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5222204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AiraKay/pseuds/AiraKay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland liked to think he could drink anyone under the table, but right now Alfred F. Jones was giving him quite a run for his money. College AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey, Arthur!

Arthur Kirkland liked to think he could drink anyone under the table.

 Now, his best frenemy Francis might scoff at that, and say that the Englishman understood nothing about all good things in moderation (like he was one to talk with his steady flow of both wine and bed partners). His friend Kiku would remain silent but for a sigh and a shake of his head, his reluctance to comment all too telling. Arthur’s older siblings would all say he was full of shit and that they could outdo him any day. All of this may or may not have been true, and Arthur’s ability to hold his liquor once imbibed was certainly questionable, but the scruffy, large-browed Brit was certainly capable of consuming copious quantities of alcohol.

 “Yer brows are so  _fuzzy_  ‘nd  _cute._  Like big ca’erpillars. Can I pet them?"

 Arthur Kirkland liked to think he could drink anyone under the table, but right now Alfred F. Jones was giving him quite a run for his money.

 "Do they come alive at nigh' and crawl 'round?" The other blond inhaled sharply, flopping further into Arthur's lap as he flailed his hands toward Arthur's face. "Are they gonna form cocoons 'nd turn into bu'erflies?"

 Arthur wasn't quite sure how the sophomore managed to down fifteen beers and half a bottle of cheap whiskey without either passing out or giving himself severe liver damage, but at the moment, he was more concerned with the fact that in his drunken stupor Jones had latched onto him like a barnacle.

 "'Nd your  _hair_ ," Jones slurred, reaching up to pat said locks and ignoring Arthur's attempt at batting him away. "It's so  _fluffy_. Like a dandelion!" Head lolling onto Arthur's shoulder, the younger man peered up with too-blue eyes. "Do ya use special product on it or does it just..." Large, callused hands waved around their owner's head. "Poof like this on its own?"

 Glaring at the invader of his personal space, Arthur contemplated letting the drunk underclassman flop around on his own.

 "I wanna touch it."

 Yes, leaving sounded like an excellent idea.

 "Hey, do ya think ya could hide contraband in there?"

 Oh good lord.

* * *

 Now let's get one thing straight. Arthur Kirkland hated Alfred F. Jones.

 The Brit was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. Unfortunately, even on their large campus, they crossed paths far too often, minimum once a week on Thursday for three hours, starting at nine give or take half an hour. And why?

 The World University Science Fiction and Fantasy Society, SFFS to its members.

 Arthur had immediately gravitated to the club's table at the activities fair his freshman year, enchanted by promises of fellow fans of his favorite genres. He'd enjoyed a full two semesters of peaceful discussions of novels, mostly quiet viewings of films both classic and current (with occasional snark thrown in), and absolutely rousing six plus hour sessions of Dungeons and Dragons.

 Everything had been perfect.

 Then sophomore year had arrived and with it a full crop of new freshmen. Among their number was Alfred F. Jones.

 Obnoxious, loud, and, infuriatingly, looking like he had stepped straight off the cover of a teenybopper magazine, Jones had immediately cemented his place as Arthur's least favorite person on campus. Initially, Arthur had been positive that the golden boy had just come to the wrong room and was looking for the general interest meeting for American football or one of the fraternities or some other stereotypical university pastime. Alternatively, he theorized that Jones had only shown up because they were screening the newest Avengers film and would never come again, but all of Arthur's hopes had been dashed the moment Jones had opened his mouth, shoved in a cheeseburger, and started loudly discussing the movies versus the comics versus the anime adaptations with Kiku, president of SFFS's sister club, the Anime Collective.

 Between slurps of cola and sprays of crumbs, Jones had talked on. And on. And on. Even when the film began, he continued with his commentary, albeit more sporadically, but occasionally setting the club off into gales of laughter that completely drowned out the dialog of the movie. Not that Arthur much cared about that; he wasn't much of a comics person, but it was the principal of the matter.

 Of course, it probably didn't help matters that Jones, upon coming face-to-face with Arthur for the first time, had promptly gone wide-eyed, gulping down his mouthful of soda heavily and just  _staring_  for a good few seconds, until Kiku had inquired after the American's health. After a few sputtering starts, Jones had managed to get out, "Uh. Well. Um....H-His eyebrows! Yeah! They're so huge, dude! Like those ninja guys in Naruto."

 Needless to say, Arthur had not appreciated that, stalking off in a huff. And from that day on, they had been at war.

 Well. Sort of. And Jones didn't seem to realize it, either. But every meeting,  _every single meeting_ , Arthur had to sit through Jones' incessant commentary, irritatingly bright laughter, easy and genial retorts to every scathing barb Arthur threw at him, and just generally deal with his annoying presence. Arthur had hoped to find some relief at their novel discussions, Jones being self-described as "not the biggest reader," but the first gathering rolled around and there he was, having read the book just to spite Arthur -- why else would he glance at the Englishman every time either of them spoke?

 Honestly, Jones was  _such_  an arse!  Yes, Arthur  _knew_ his hair was somewhat untamable, his eyebrows a little on the large side, and okay, maybe his eyes were close to the color of algae but that was just rude! Was it any wonder he was a so-called "grumpygills" every meeting? And then there was that time Jones gave him a bottle containing a glowing light that was supposed to be a fairy, "because you like magic-y stuff, right?" Arthur hadn't even dignified that mockery with a response (though the bottle now resided next to his Harry Potter collection on the bookshelf).

 Arthur was not one to suffer in silence, and his caustic responses to Jones' stupid, thoughtless comments quickly sparked a never-ending cycle of snark and smarm that lived on to present day. They hadn't managed to get themselves kicked out of club yet, though Lukas, the vice-president, had threatened more than once.

 Okay, so occasionally Jones brought up good points, and when the two of them could be civil, they actually had fairly decent discussions and debates. Once in a while Jones even managed a comment that Arthur found humorous, and the passionate spark in his eyes whenever he talked about heroes and comics and video games was admittedly just a little bit endearing. But still.

* * *

So there you have it. Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland absolutely did not get along, no ifs, ands, or buts. As far as Arthur could tell, just about the only thing he and Jones had in common was an intense love for Doctor Who, which was probably how they had ended up in their present predicament.

 "Hey. Hey Arthur."

 "What now?"

 "When sheep have trouble fallin' asleep, do they count people?"

 Arthur groaned, mentally cursing whoever it was that thought a Doctor Who drinking game at their annual end-of-semester gathering was a good idea. He had a paper to work on this weekend, unfortunately, so he'd forgone the alcohol for once and sipped tea instead (just as good), but most of the club was properly pissed at this point, and half of them had disappeared back to their dorms.

 "Hey Arthur. Are lobsters like mermaids to scorpions?"

 Among the ranks of the vanished were Jones' friends, even the ones who, along with Jones, had volunteered to host the party at their flat. Most unfortunately, that meant there was no one to pass the inebriated imbecile off to.

 "Hey. Arthur. How come a fly can fly, but an elephant can't elephant?" That one made Jones snort. "Elephant. Ele _can't_." He flopped himself across Arthur's lap. "English 's weird, dude."

 Arthur  _really_  wanted to just leave him, but Jones' arms had clamped around his waist like an octopus's tentacles.

 "Hey Arthur! So like.... Dorito means little gold right? Why would they name it  _that?_ You're not  _actually_ eating gold.... right?" Jones gasped again. " _Dude_. The nutrition facts always talk about vitamins and minerals.  _Minerals_. We eat  _rocks,_  Arthur. That's so metal!" That one sent Jones into a fit of giggles, and the heat that rushed to Arthur's cheeks as a result was definitely from irritation. "Metal, Arthur. Get it? Gold? Metal?" Arthur sighed and dropped his head against the back of the sofa, praying for somebody,  _anybody_ , to come and rescue him.

 "Hey, Arthur? Do ya think Tim Burton realizes other actors exist besides Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter? Should someone tell 'im?" Arthur thanked his lucky stars as Jones staggered to his feet, wavering slightly as he attempted to gain his balance. "I'll go tell 'im."

 "All right, that's enough." Arthur steered a weaving Jones away from the front door. "You're done for the night, where's your room?"

 Jones didn't seem totally devastated by the idea of leaving the party early, if his loose, bleary grin was any indication. "Yer comin' up to my room?"

 Well, someone had to make sure he didn't wander out into the December chill in search of famous filmmakers, and it didn't look like there were any other volunteers. "Yes, yes, now on your way." Arthur followed Jones to a narrow staircase that the younger man promptly tripped up in his disoriented state. Rolling his eyes, Arthur slung Jones' (very firm) arm over his own shoulder, balancing his laughing companion as they made their way to the second floor. More than once on the short trip, Arthur found himself pressed in close to Jones, and wondered how he'd never managed to notice the other boy's  _very_  defined muscles. Then he promptly scolded himself for harboring even the fleetest positive thought about his sort-of nemesis.

 Finally they stumbled into Jones' room -- easily identifiable as the one with the vintage Captain America poster on the door -- and Jones plopped himself on his bed, happily snuggling into the covers like a golden retriever puppy.

 "You're going to feel like shit in the morning if you fall asleep like that."

 Jones waved him off. "Nah, I'll be finnneee."

 But Arthur had managed to locate a full water bottle and shoved it in his face with the order of "Drink," which Jones, shockingly enough, obeyed. He even went and washed up, all at Arthur's command. Well, if he had to take care of a drunk, at least Jones was a cooperative one. "All right, get in your pajamas and then you're done." He clearly hadn't thought that one through, as Jones obediently dropped his trousers to the ground before Arthur could glance away. His boxers were, unsurprisingly, patterned with DC heroes, and Arthur tried very hard not to look any closer than that, turning his back until Jones had slid between the covers safely clothed in Super Mario sleep pants and a plain tee. “Well then.” Jones would be fine from here on out, he was sure. “I’ll just let you sleep, then."

 “No!” The shriek, combined with a clumsy grab at his sleeve, resulted in Arthur toppling over onto the ground along with Jones’ torso. Jones promptly slid the rest of himself off the bed and wrapped himself around Arthur. “The ghosts are gonna get me!"

 “Bloody — Jones, there aren’t any ghosts!” Arthur tried to pry his junior off with little success; damn but Jones was strong.

 "The ones in the basement!" Jones whimpered, burying his head against Arthur's neck. "They want me to pity them but I don't wanna, they're scary!"

 Oh for heaven's sake. "First off, those were the Gelth, they weren't really even ghosts, they were aliens--"

 "Yeah, alien  _ghosts_ , that's worse! They're gonna come get me! With the gas mask kid."

 With a sigh, Arthur gave up on trying to get Jones off of him. Maybe logic would work, though he didn't have high hopes. "Jones, Doctor Who is science  _fiction_. The Gelth and the Empty Child are  _not_  real and they are not going to come after you in the night." Was Jones normally this terrified of the strange and unusual, or was it only the alcohol? Now that he thought about it, Jones  _had_  been conspicuously absent when they'd shown  _The Conjuring_  three weeks ago. And had he skipped  _The Exorcist_  as well? Interesting. Arthur filed that little tidbit away for later; in the meantime, he focused on the way Jones was biting his lip, for all the world a frightened little schoolboy _._

 "...Promise?" Jones peered down at him with the most pathetic puppy dog eyes.

 "Yes. Can I go now?" Arthur snapped back, only to find the breath hugged out of him.

"But if you go, they could getcha! You gotta stay here, I'll keep you safe 'cause I'm a hero! Plus then we can watch each other's backs -- not that I'm scared or anythin'."

 Arthur rolled his eyes. "Perish the thought. You'll be fine, Jones, now let me go home." He narrowed his most poisonous green-eyed glare at his little leech, who only stared at him beseechingly. Bloody  _fantastic_. "You're not going to let me go, are you?"

 "Nope. Gotta keep you safe." That wavering tone made Arthur fairly certain that he wasn't the one Jones was worried over, and the wobbling lower lip was incongruous with the words -- and just not  _fair_ , dammit, how was he supposed to say no when the fool was so upset?

 With no little grumbling, he tried once again to untangle himself from Jones. "Fine. Just let me change." Pleading shifted back to grinning in a matter of seconds, and the moment Arthur had stripped down to his own boxers and undershirt, Jones clambered back under his pile of sheets and pillows, nestling happily under the warm comforter. Blessedly, the bed was a full and not a standard dorm XL -- one of the benefits of living off-campus -- so all Arthur would have to do was keep to his side of the bed. Easy enough.

 Or so he thought, until he slid under the sheets and Jones hugged him close like a gigantic stuffed animal. Pushing at his arms once again proved fruitless, and Arthur found himself giving up rather quickly; he'd be able to get away as soon as Jones fell asleep, and get him back tenfold when he did so. And... well, Jones was quite warm, and the night was admittedly cold, so maybe this was all right. For a bit. In the meantime Arthur would content himself with drafting the best way to exact his revenge, even if his eyelids were starting to feel suspiciously heavy.

 "Hey. Hey, Arthur." Jones' voice cut through the silence and dark like a knife to the ear. Arthur wished glares could kill, not that it'd do him much good with his companion spooning up to him. When he didn't receive a reply, Jones hissed again, "Hey, Arthur!"

 "Oh bloody hell,  _what?_ "

 "Wanna know a secret?" The question was laced with a sleepy yawn, warm breath puffing across Arthur's ear.

 "...I don't know, do I?" Actually, he did. Blackmail material might be useful.

 "I really, really, really, really, really, really, really,  _really_  like you."

 Every muscle in Arthur's body locked up, freezing him in place. "...What?" He felt Jones give a sleepy smile into his neck, hugging him closer to his chest as his breathing evened out in sleep.

 The drunken idiot was just babbling out his arse at this point, he had to be -- in this state, he thought the villains from Doctor Who were  _real_ , for goodness sake! Of course he didn't  _like_  Arthur; that was beyond preposterous. Jones took every opportunity to get in Arthur's face, to needle him and poke at him and generally garner all of his rage, as if he wanted to occupy all of Arthur's attention --

 This train of thought required more consideration than he really wanted to give to it, ever. It could wait until morning, at least, and hopefully much longer, right? Right.

 Thus convinced, Arthur snuggled into the warmth of the bed, letting sleep close his eyes and ignoring the lingering wisps of one very important question:

  _Could Alfred F. Jones actually like him?_

* * *

When Arthur opened his eyes again, he was greeted with an unpleasantly bright light and a not-so-unpleasant warmth draped around him. Groaning, he rolled over, attempting to hide from the morning sun in his pillow, but ending up face-to-face with a still sleeping Jones.

Right. He'd stayed overnight to make sure the incredibly inebriated idiot didn't do anything stupider than normal. Well, now that that dreadfully exciting, excruciatingly fun task was over, perhaps he could head home, have a proper lie-in, and then get to work on his paper after a nice cup of tea. As soon as he disentangled himself from Jones, of course, which would be the work of a moment, surely, so long as Jones didn't wake up.

Of course, because life had it out for Arthur Kirkland, right then, Jones woke up. Unfocused eyes that matched the sky outside blinked at him blearily, and then a lazy, loose smile spread across Jones' face. "You're here." Slightly calloused hands reached out with a gentleness surprising for their size, fingertips barely grazing Arthur's cheek as Jones' hazy grin widened. "This 's my favorite dream." Reaching for Arthur's hand, Jones twined their fingers together with a sigh that turned into a yawn. "Mmph... m' head hurts."

"That's what happens when you drink your weight in liquor, Jones. Now -- what in the blazes are you doing?" Jones had leaned in closer, but at the sound of his name, he pulled back, the tiniest pucker of a frown drawing down his brows.

 "You never call me Jones. Just... Alfred" Arthur opened his mouth to contest that, seeing as he never called the other anything  _but_  his surname (and what good would it do, anyway? It would just be another way for Jones to wiggle his way in, a chink in Arthur's armor through which Jones could hurt him), but the younger man continued, "Only the real-life Arthur calls me--"

 Arthur didn't get to hear then end of the sentence, as Jones promptly bolted up in bed with eyes the size of dinner plates, and then seconds later proceeded to clamp a hand over his mouth and make a mad dash out the door. Pausing only to grab the water bottle on the nightstand, Arthur followed him down the hall, albeit at a more sedate pace. He found Jones easily enough, hunched over the toilet and dry-heaving.  _Lovely_.

 Panting, Jones slumped on the floor, peering up at him; Arthur couldn't tell if the tears on his lashes were from his retching or because the other was crying. He was certainly agitated, at the very least, starting a sentence only to stop and bite his lip or shake his head. Arthur, kind soul that he was, shoved the water bottle at him as a distraction. "Drink. And then back to bed with you, git."

 For all his height, Jones seem shrunken somehow, wilted, even when he stood and followed Arthur wordlessly back to his room, gracelessly tumbling into bed and wrapping himself in a blanket cocoon, face hidden.

 Oh, no. He wasn't getting away that easily, not after all Arthur had to endure last night. "Jones." The pile of bedding twitched as its occupant flinched, but it became evident quickly enough that no response was forthcoming. Arthur gave him to the count of thirty before repeating, "Jones." At least this time Jones rolled over, only those robin's egg eyes shining out from within the warm confines of their owner's hideaway, wide and beseeching like a puppy's once again. Biting the inside of his cheek, Arthur gingerly took a seat on the bed beside the lump, frowning. "You dream about... waking up to me? And you said last night --"

 "Can we not talk about last night 'cause I was totally smashed off my ass and that doesn't count, right?" Jones squeaked, rapid-fire words a near-incomprehensible babble. "I mean, it's totally unheroic and probably really stupid and I know you hate me and I'm sorry --" But Arthur had already put together the puzzle, several times over, and the pieces added up so neatly with only one baffling, illogical conclusion. And somehow... he didn't mind the answer he had gotten.

 " _Alfred,_ " he cut the other off, and the stunned silence was almost as gratifying as the shaky inhale and blinking blue eyes. "...do you have any coursework to do today?"

 "Wha -- uh... yeah?" Alfred dragged the word out, tousled honey-gold head hesitantly emerging from its hideaway, brows furrowed at the seeming non sequitur. "I have p-sets for Quant and Dif-Eq, and then a lab for Analytical... Why?"

 "Because." Arthur gave a sharp tug on one of the blankets, ignoring Alfred's squeak and sliding under the covers, though he stared determinedly at the wall as he spoke. "We're going to have a lie-in because I was up to rubbish o'clock keeping an eye on your sorry, drunken arse.  _Then_  I will fetch my bag from downstairs and work on my paper. And,  _if_  you behave..." Arthur buried his face in the pillow and told it, " _Then_  we may go out to dinner. Somewhere nice, though, none of your fast food rubbish."

 He only had to wait a moment before Alfred slung his arms around him with a gleeful grin that Arthur could feel radiating off of him a mile away, hugging him so tight Arthur wondered if his bones would crack.

 And Arthur Kirkland had to admit, that maybe, just maybe, he didn't hate Alfred F. Jones so terribly much after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I just love unreliable narrators, and England is such a great one. This is dedicated to my own actual real-life Alfred F. Jones, Celinedaqueen, who is forever giving me inspiration for fics revolving around these two dorks.


End file.
